At the further end of the ward a Medical Officer stood in murmured conversation with a Sister. He was outlined black against the radiance of the sunset, but on her the glow fell fully illuminant, rosy upon the starched whiteness of the coif and apron, touching the pale face into faint colour. Her large, serious eyes rested upon him, attentive to his instructions, glanced away to the patient in the end bed as he spoke.
"Number Ten must be very carefully watched, Sister," he said, the little smile upon his face indicative only of his confidence in the quiet young woman before him, in no way minimising the gravity of his words. "I am afraid we are going to have a very hard fight for him. But we mustn't let him slip through our fingers. We'll keep him on this side if we can."
She assented with a nod of the head, and a long deep breath that was clearly a sigh. He scrutinised her sharply.
"You have something on your mind, Sister. No bad news, I hope?" His voice was very kind. "Captain Hershaw is all right?"
The Sister's engagement was generally known in the hospital.
The large eyes opened, revealing a mute, long-suffered anxiety.
"It is more than a week since I heard from him, Doctor. I am afraid—horribly afraid," she said in a low voice. "This terrible fighting——!"
"The post is sometimes held up during active operations, Sister. You must not be prematurely anxious. A week is not very long. You must believe in his luck. He has had a charmed life so far," the M.O.'s kindly smile emphasised his reassuring tone.
"He has—he has. And life always seems so—so vivid in him. I cannot imagine him"—her voice sank almost to inaudibility—"dead."